Born Free
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Glenn
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On a supply run in Atlanta, Glenn enters an old timey diner hoping for canned goods. There's an unmistakable scent of fresh death, but he doesn't see any walkers around. And aside from the scent, the place is pristine. The bar stools stand in perfect symmetry, the menus sorted, the salt and pepper shakers arranged to the same rotation on each table. The leather seats of the booths are shining. The counter gleams.
And the jukebox is playing.
"Hi."
Glenn jumps slightly and brandishes his baseball bat. He turns to his left — there's a girl in a booth at the far corner. She leans lazily on the back of the seat, head resting on her pale arms. She beckons him over with a finger.
Glenn blinks.
"Don't be shy," she says. The white baseball cap slips off her head. She catches it, then tosses it at him. It misses.
He bends down and picks it up. There's a small logo of a golfer in the middle.
She smiles. So get closer to my body now, the jukebox sings.
Glenn does.
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She tells him that she's originally from southern California and was in Atlanta for a wedding. Pure bad luck that she decided to stay a few extra weeks for vacation, and then everything went to hell. She's been hop-skip-jumping around the city, creating little safe spots and scavenging for supplies.
She's alone.
"It's not too bad," she says. "I tried teaming up with some people for a little bit, but it didn't work out. It's better if I'm alone."
"What happened to them?" Glenn asks.
She shifts her gaze away from the window, looking him straight in the eyes. He mistakes her apathy for some sort of dulled wound. She says:
"I killed them."
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He tries to convince her to come to the quarry with him. It won't end like that again, he promises. You won't have to do what you did. It's safe there, and we know how to protect ourselves.
"Or at the very least, we're learning. After all, we're all works-in-progress," he jokes.
She laughs. "I used to say that a lot. It makes for a poor excuse."
Still, she disappears behind the kitchen door and returns with a backpack and a duffel, ready to go. He grins at her in bright camaraderie, yet a part of him wonders, all the long way back through the city and into the woods, if maybe it wasn't just the pretty face and slim figure fooling him.
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The camp receives her well. It's one more mouth to feed, sure, but they're good people; it helps that she unzips the duffel to reveal a wealth of canned meals and medicine. Coupled with the haul that Glenn brought, as well as the Dixons' continuous contribution of fresh game, the group at the quarry should be set for another few weeks.
They have a small feast that night to celebrate the new addition. One more survivor, one more glimpse of humanity. She tells stories of far-off beaches and perpetually sunny weather, of early-morning surf and the pale pink sunset bouncing off clear waters. Andrea and Amy volunteer to squeeze her into their tent. She glances at Glenn, then accepts with learned grace, promising to get her own as soon as possible.
Glenn wonders if he should have invited her to share with him. If it would have been worth the raised brows.
(Yes, he decides that night, watching her bend to crawl into the sisters' tent. Absolutely.)
The next morning, he is proactive. He wakes up early and finds that she's already doing stretches near the edge of the woods. The one bedding item, if it can be called that, she brought with her was a yoga mat. Californians, everyone had chuckled.
He offers her to take her down to the lake for a cool-down swim, or to just show her where everyone bathes. She is delighted by the cool water when she dips her toes in, and turns back to him with a considering look.
"Think anyone's up yet?" she says.
Glenn looks at the sky, the light of morning creeping up on the stars, and shrugs. "Probably one or two."
She grins impishly. "That's fine then."
In a manner reminiscent of their first meeting (just yesterday, he recalls, startled by how well he feels he knows her already), she tosses her shirt at him and misses. Spectacularly. He blushes when he realizes that she's wearing nothing under it, and hides his face when she reaches for her shorts.
"Dude, it's called skinny dipping. Come on!" she insists. She has to cajole him for another minute before she finally threatens to get out and drag him in herself, and he relents.
The shirt goes easily enough, and he toes off his shorts with a bit more trepidation. But standing there in his boxers, the summer breeze beginning to pick up and wrap around his skin, he feels suddenly invigorated.
The underwear lays discarded in the pile of clothes by the lake, and they swim until the sun warms their cheeks, even in the cool water. He feels, for the first time in months, the press of bare skin and girlish curves against his body, and though they don't go beyond juvenile touches in the water, he is captivated.
She sleeps in his tent that night.
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It doesn't take long for her to fit seamlessly into the group dynamic. She spends most of her time with Glenn or Andrea, the people closest in age. She converses lightly with the children, but shows no special proclivity toward them. She avoids Ed, Shane, and Dale, the last one confusing Glenn greatly. She is on typical, friendly terms with everyone else.
Except the Dixons.
Merle's attitude toward her is disquieting. As expected, he makes the occasional rude remark (whether it be regarding her gender or race) when they cross paths, but it is tempered by his palpable discomfort in her presence. He watches her as one might watch a sleeping beast or a reckless car on the highway. He also develops a new habit of gutting animals close to where she does her morning workout, staring her down the whole time. Glenn takes it as interest.
"You should watch out for Merle. He's always looking at you, you know. I can't help but feel like he might try something," Glenn warns her.
She regards him with a blank look, as if he had just spoken to her in Swedish. She says with complete confidence, "He won't," and goes back to her journal.
She writes or draws in it every day. Glenn is itching to sneak a peek, but he respects his new … friend. Besides, he doesn't want to know what she might (or might not) be writing about him.
"One day I'll let you," she says, as if reading his thoughts. "You can read the whole thing on that day, if you want."
Glenn stammers a denial and slinks off feeling like a schoolboy again. He heads to his tent to plan the route of his next supply run, but is stopped halfway by Daryl Dixon, who grabs him by his shirt and pulls him behind Dale's RV. Out of almost everyone's line of vision, Glenn observes, trying not to freak out.
Luckily, Daryl releases him immediately after the move and steps back. Sensing no clear hostile intention, Glenn breathes a sigh of relief.
"You scared me, dude. What's up?"
Daryl shakes his head. "You need to be careful."
Glenn is bemused. "Of … what, exactly? Or just in general? Because I'm pretty aware of how careful I need to be in general. With the apocalypse and all."
Daryl shakes his head again; his words come out with a tinge of frustration: "Listen to me, chinaman. This is the only time I'm warning you. That girlfriend of yours is bad news." He steps closer, eyes flashing with threat. "Don't be stupid."
Then he stalks off, leaving Glenn with a stuttering heartbeat and a lot of confusion.
"What was that all about?" she asks, appearing out of thin air.
Glenn yelps. "Jesus, where did you come from?"
"Uh, I walked over? You've been standing here staring into space for like a minute." She leans into him, bumps his shoulder playfully. "Anyway, what did Daryl say to you? Can't imagine it was anything good."
Glenn does his best suppress the nervous energy bubbling up as he thinks about what Daryl told him. Daryl — the badass crossbow/wielding redneck — told him to be careful around her.
"Just something about getting some stuff for him on the supply run," Glenn says, adjusting his hat. "And how he'd break my bones if I don't. Typical Dixon stuff."
To his relief, she buys the story and laughs. "Typical indeed. I don't think I've heard a single thing from him or Merle that isn't just, like, angry."
"Let's not even talk about Merle," Glenn snorts. Then, in hushed tones, "Seriously, though, let's not. I'm not trying to get overheard and then have to deal with more threats of bodily harm."
"I'll protect you," she teases.
They walk to the fire together, chatting normally. But Glenn's palms are sweaty and a chill runs down the back of his neck when he watches her expression out of the corner of his eye. Her face when she thinks no one's looking.
It's blank. Unfeeling. Bored, gaping indifference.
He wonders if she really would protect him.
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She asks to join him on the next supply run. They can split up once they reach the city, she offers, but she'd like to show him her other hideouts.
"It's dangerous," he says. It's a meaningless argument, and they both know it. The entire world is dangerous now — and she's well-versed in danger.
(According to Daryl, at least. The man's words bothered Glenn for a few days before he realized how absurd it was to trust a racist, hostile redneck. After all, a resting bitch face is not an accurate reflection of someone's character. Glenn shrugs off Daryl's insinuations and doesn't let it color his interactions with her — though he still can't help but shudder when he notices, more and more often, the unmistakable falsity of her smiles.)
So they both head out to Atlanta. They set a meet-up spot and a back-up in case the original point gets overrun. Glenn combs through convenience stores and supermarkets, restaurants and the mom-and-pop shops. He manages to dodge any active combat and heads to the meet-up at noon, as agreed. She's already there at the diner, eating a sandwich to the jukebox's hazy tunes. She tosses a wrap at him.
"Holy shit. Where did you get sandwich stuff?" he asks, biting down on the apparently homemade meal.
She wipes her fingers off on a napkin and tosses it into the trash can. She often tells him that cleanliness is next to godliness, even in the end of the world.
"I have a spot with a generator. Working water and electricity," she explains nonchalantly. Glenn blanches.
"And you haven't shared this with me before? I could have taken an actual shower? And eaten ice cream?" he says, betrayed.
She giggles. "You're the one who wanted me to go to that damn quarry with you."
Glenn stuffs the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and stands. "Take me. Now."
She winks and teases him about his phrasing, but leads him promptly through winding streets and alleyways to a wealthier area with sweeping glass apartment buildings and sky-high bank towers. They dispose of a few walkers as they pass (her sledgehammer smashes their skulls with methodical ease) and eventually make their way up to the penthouse floor of a gorgeous, modern suite.
"Fuck," Glenn says. He drops his stuff and walks over to the wall-length window panes. The city is framed like a museum exhibit — beautiful, unreal. The destruction seems painted on.
He turns to her. She's smiling, but it looks bizarre. Her eyes are alight, little wrinkles by the corner, and her lips stretch atop bared teeth. It's genuine, Glenn realizes.
It's horrific.
"Got you, got you," she says, sing-song. Then, in a guttural growl: "Fucking finally."
She lopes toward him as he stands, too surprised or confused or scared or all of those to react, and jams a needle in his neck.
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Three days later, Glenn stumbles back to camp. Carol rushes toward him and wraps a blanket around his nude form, lets her shiver in her lap for what must be hours even though he's caked in viscera. Later, she doesn't speak to him as she cleans him, doesn't ask about the numbers carved into his back, about the scarred wrists and ankles.
Daryl gives him some spare clothes. His gaze is filled with something approaching pity.
Merle, on the other hand, looks upon him with utter self-assurance. "Called it," he says one day as they eat dinner around the fire. He waves a black book in front of Glenn's face. "You should take a look in here, chink. This is some of the most fucked up shit I've ever—"
Glenn rips the book from his hand and throws it into the flames.
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End Notes:
Another experiment with the OC genre. I've yet to come across a TWD OC that isn't a typical good survivor gal, so I wanted to put a little spin on it. I have some more ideas and may continue, but expect it to be in this same disjointed-ish story-telling format. Thanks, and hope you enjoyed.